To transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary Seraphine." The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.
The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow.

The leaping flame of the fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.
As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak, nor to meet the Bishop's eyes.

These--the saints be praised--were now intent upon the closely written page.
The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring.

The Knight, fixing his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine.
At last the Bishop began to speak with careful deliberation, his eyes upon the letter, yet telling, instead of reading; a method ofttimes maddening to an anxious listener, eager to snatch the parchment and master its contents for himself; yet who must perforce wait to receive them, with due patience, from another.
"The Prioress relates to me first of all a conversation she had, by my suggestion, with Sister Mary Serephine, in which she told that lady much of what passed between herself and me when she consulted me upon the apparent desire of this nun to escape from the Convent, renounce her vows, and return to her lover and the world--her lover who had come to save her." The Bishop paused.
The Knight stirred uneasily in his seat.

A net seemed to be closing around him.